I scribbled notes as fast as I could. This was what I had come for. Dr. Obado explained that for the past two years, the French government had been conducting secret weapons tests in remote areas of West Africa. Most of these tests had been in the deserts of Niger, hundreds of miles east of the capital, Niamey. Before, the French had always conducted their tests in the South Pacific, but now they had decided to use their former colonies in Africa, where the political leaders were compliant and the danger of public protest was less. But the nuclear testing was killing the wildlife, Obado said. Women in nomadic tribes who wandered through the test zone were giving birth to deformed babies. Obado had tried to protest quietly, but the French hadn’t listened. So he had formed Vert/Vertu. “And then I met these other gentlemen,” he said, “who convinced me it was time for action.”

“What will you do to the hostages?” I asked. “That’s what the world wants to know.”

“Sir, we have brought here to Paris, to the finest restaurant in all the world, a meal of radioactive poison. It is water drawn from aquifers near the test site. We have brought it in a lead container, so it is harmless for now. But unless the French admit they are conducting the tests—and agree to stop them—we will make the diners and staff of Taillevent drink the radioactive wastes.”

“What about money? Monsieur Afrique said he wouldn’t release the hostages unless the French government paid billions of francs.”

“That is their demand. They are men of the world. I only want the tests stopped.”

I wrote it all down, just as he said it. I looked at my watch and saw that it was already 9:30. If I was going to get something in the next morning’s paper, I needed to finish my interview soon and get back to the office.

“Dr. Obado, I need to ask one more favor. Could I interview some of the hostages, please?”

“Yes, why not.” He led me back into the wood-paneled dining room and the knot of people on the floor. They looked wretched. The elegant woman in the Chanel suit was sobbing quietly. Her husband was pleading with the Arab guard, offering to pay millions of francs if they would let him and his wife go. It was a sorry little lifeboat. Obado spoke to his colleagues and told them he had given me permission to interview some of the hostages.

“Five minutes only,” said Monsieur Afrique. He put his hand on his pistol, to remind himself and me that it was there.

“I’m sorry, folks,” I said in English. “I don’t have much time. Are any of you here from the United States?”